THE  WILD  SWANS  AT  COOLE 


«s9  ■  o  ' 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO  •    DALLAS 
ATLANTA  •   SAN  FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •    BOMBAY  •    CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


THE   WILD    SWANS 
AT   COOLE 


BY 
W.   B.  YEATS 


Neto  ¥ork 
THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1919 

AH  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1917  and  1918, 
By  MARGARET  C.  ANDERSON. 

COPYRIGHT,   1918, 

By  HARRIET  MONROE. 

Copyright,  1918  andj1919, 

By  THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  elcctrotyped.     Published  March,  1919. 

:  •  ■  *  *'  ;    '  *  r   * 

.4  .   ,•  ,-.•••  •     -    •'  -\ 

•  -    :  -v-  .  / 


NortooolJ  $res2 

J.  S.  Cushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Go. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


PREFACE 

This  book  is,  in  part,  a  reprint  of 
The  Wild  Swans  at  Coole,  printed  a 
year  ago  on  my  sister's  hand-press 
at  Dundrum,  Co.  Dublin.  I  have 
not,  however,  reprinted  a  play  which 
may  be  a  part  of  a  book  of  new 
plays  suggested  by  the  dance  plays  of 
Japan,  and  I  have  added  a  number 
of  new  poems.  Michael  Robartes  and 
John  Aherne,  whose  names  occur  in 
one  or  other  of  these,  are  characters 
in  some  stories  I  wrote  years  ago, 
who  have  once  again  become  a  part 
of  the  phantasmagoria  through  which 
I  can  alone  express  my  convictions 
about   the   world.     I   have  the  fancy 


O  O  O  O  i  O 


vi  PREFACE 

that  I  read  the  name  John  Aherne 
among  those  of  men  prosecuted  for 
making  a  disturbance  at  the  first 
production  of  "The  Play  Boy,"  which 
may  account  for  his  animosity  to 
myself. 

W.  B.  Y. 

Ballylee,  Co.  Galway, 
September  1918. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 


The  Wild  Swans  at  Coole 

« 

1 

In  Memory  of  Major  Robert  Gregory 

4 

An  Irish  Airman  foresees  his  Death 

13 

Men  improve  with  the  Years   . 

14 

The  Collar-Bone  of  a  Hare 

,       15 

Under  the  Round  Tower   . 

.      17 

Solomon  to  Sheba 

.       19 

The  Living  Beauty 

.      21 

A  Song  . 

.      22 

To  a  Young  Beauty 

.      23 

To  a  Young  Girl 

.      24 

The  Scholars 

.       25 

Tom  O'Roughley  . 

.       26 

The  Sad  Shepherd 

.       27 

Lines  written  in  Dejectio: 

v 

.      39 

i 

m 

Vlll 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

The  Dawn 

40 

41 

44 

46 

Memory 

47 

48 

50 

His  Phoenix  .... 

,       54 

A  Thought  from  Propertius 

58 

59 

63 

64 

The  Balloon  of  the  Mind 

66 

To  a  Squirrel  at  Kyle-Na-Gno 

.       67 

On  being  asked  for  a  War  Poem 

.       68 

In  Memory  of  Alfred  Pollexfen 

.       69 

.       72 

79 

A  Prayer  on  going  into  my  House 

.       86 

The  Phases  of  the  Moon  . 

.       88 

The  Cat  and  the  Moon 

.     102 

CONTENTS  ix 

PAGE 

The  Saint  and  the  Hunchback  .        .        .104 

Two  Songs  of  a  Fool 106 

Another  Song  of  a  Fool  .  .  .  .108 
The  Double  Vision  of  Michael  Robartes  108 
Note 115 


> 


THE  WILD   SWANS  AT  COOLE 

The  trees  are  in  their  autumn  beauty, 

The  woodland  paths  are  dry, 

Under  the  October  twilight  the  water 

Mirrors  a  still  sky  ; 

Upon  the  brimming  water  among  the 

stones 
Are  nine  and  fifty  swans. 

The  nineteenth  Autumn  has  come  upon 

me 
Since  I  first  made  my  count ; 
I  saw,  before  I  had  well  finished, 
All  suddenly  mount 
And  scatter  wheeling  in  great  broken 

rings 
Upon  their  clamorous  wings. 


2    THE  WILD  SWANS  AT  COOLE 

I  have  looked  upon  those  brilliant 
creatures, 

And  now  my  heart  is  sore. 

All's  changed  since  I,  hearing  at  twi- 
light, 

The  first  time  on  this  shore, 

The  bell-beat  of  their  wings  above  my 
head, 

Trod  with  a  lighter  tread. 

Unwearied  still,  lover  by  lover, 
They  paddle  in  the  cold, 
Companionable  streams  or  climb  the 

air; 
Their  hearts  have  not  grown  old ; 
Passion    or    conquest,    wander    where 

they  will, 
Attend  upon  them  still. 

But    now    they    drift    on    the    still 

water 
Mysterious,  beautiful ; 


THE  WILD  SWANS  AT  COOLE   3 

Among  what  rushes  will  they  build, 

By  what  lake's  edge  or  pool 

Delight    men's    eyes,   when    I   awake 

some  day 
To  find  they  have  flown  away  ? 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
MAJOR  ROBERT  GREGORY 


Now  that  we're  almost  settled  in  our 

house 
I'll  name  the  friends  that  cannot  sup 

with  us 
Beside  a  fire   of  turf   in   the  ancient 

tower, 
And    having    talked     to     some     late 

hour 
Climb  up  the  narrow  winding  stair  to 

bed: 
Discoverers  of  forgotten  truth 
Or  mere  companions  of  my  youth, 
All,  all  are  in  my  thoughts  to-night, 

being  dead. 

4 


MAJOR  ROBERT   GREGORY    5 

Always  we'd  have  the  new  friend  meet 

the  old, 
And  we  are  hurt  if  either  friend  seem 

cold, 
And  there  is  salt  to  lengthen  out  the 

smart 
In  the  affections  of  our  heart, 
And  quarrels  are  blown  up  upon  that 

head; 
But  not  a  friend  that  I  would  bring 
This  night  can  set  us  quarrelling, 
For  all  that  come  into  my  mind  are 

dead. 


Lionel  Johnson  comes  the  first  to  mind, 
That  loved  his  learning  better  than 

mankind, 
Though  courteous  to  the  worst ;  much 

falling  he 
Brooded  upon  sanctity 


6    MAJOR  ROBERT  GREGORY 

Till  all  his  Greek  and  Latin  learning 

seemed 
A    long    blast    upon    the    horn    that 

brought 
A  little  nearer  to  his  thought 
A  measureless  consummation  that  he 

dreamed. 

4 

And  that  enquiring  man  John  Synge 

comes  next, 
That  dying  chose  the  living  world  for 

text 
And  never  could  have  rested  in  the 

tomb 
But    that,    long    travelling,    he    had 

come 
Towards    nightfall    upon    certain    set 

apart 
In  a  most  desolate  stony  place, 
Towards  nightfall  upon  a  race 
Passionate  and  simple  like  his  heart. 


MAJOR  ROBERT  GREGORY    7 


And  then  I  think  of  old  George 
Pollexfen, 

In  muscular  youth  well  known  to 
Mayo  men 

For  horsemanship  at  meets  or  at  race- 
courses, 

That  could  have  shown  how  purebred 
horses 

And  solid  men,  for  all  their  passion,  live 

But  as  the  outrageous  stars  incline 

By  opposition,  square  and  trine ; 

Having  grown  sluggish  and  contem- 
plative. 

6 

They  were  my  close  companions  many 

a  year, 
A  portion  of  my  mind  and  life,  as  it 

were, 
And   now  their   breathless  faces  seem 

to   look 


8    MAJOR  ROBERT   GREGORY 

Out  of  some  old  picture-book ; 

I    am    accustomed    to    their    lack    of 

breath, 
But  not  that  my  dear  friend's  dear  son, 
Our  Sidney  and  our  perfect  man, 
Could    share    in    that    discourtesy    of 

death. 

7 

For  all  things  the  delighted  eye  now 
sees 

Were  loved  by  him;  the  old  storm- 
broken  trees 

That  cast  their  shadows  upon  road 
and  bridge ; 

The  tower  set  on  the  stream's  edge ; 

The  ford  where  drinking  cattle  make 
a  stir 

Nightly,  and  startled  by  that  sound 

The  water-hen  must  change  her 
ground ; 

He  might  have  been  your  heartiest 
welcomer. 


MAJOR  ROBERT  GREGORY    9 

8 

When  with  the  Galway  foxhounds  he 

would  ride 
From    Castle    Taylor    to    the    Rox- 

borough  side 
Or    Esserkelly    plain,    few    kept    his 

pace; 
At  Mooneen  he  had  leaped  a  place 
So   perilous  that  half   the   astonished 

meet 
Had    shut    their     eyes,     and     where 

was  it 
He  rode  a  race  without  a  bit  ? 
And  yet  his  mind  outran  the  horses' 

feet. 

9 

We  dreamed  that  a  great  painter  had 

been  born 
To  cold  Clare  rock  and  Galway  rock 

and  thorn, 


10  MAJOR  ROBERT  GREGORY 

To  that  stern  colour  and  that  delicate 

line 
That  are  our  secret  discipline 
Wherein  the  gazing  heart  doubles  her 

might. 
Soldier,  scholar,  horseman,  he, 
And  yet  he  had  the  intensity 
To  have  published  all  to  be  a  world's 

delight. 

10 

What  other  could  so  well  have  coun- 
selled us 

In  all  lovely  intricacies  of  a  house 

As  he  that  practised  or  that  under- 
stood 

All  work  in  metal  or  in  wood, 

In  moulded  plaster  or  in  carven  stone  ? 

Soldier,  scholar,  horseman,  he, 

And  all  he  did  done  perfectly 

As  though  he  had  but  that  one  trade 
alone. 


MAJOR  ROBERT  GREGORY  11 

11 

Some  burn  damp  fagots,  others  may 

consume 
The  entire  combustible  world  in  one 

small  room 
As  though  dried  straw,  and  if  we  turn 

about 
The  bare  chimney  is  gone  black  out 
Because  the  work  had  finished  in  that 

flare. 
Soldier,  scholar,  horseman,  he, 
As  'twere  all  life's  epitome. 
What  made  us  dream  that  he  could 

comb  grey  hair  ? 


12 

I  had   thought,   seeing  how   bitter   is 

that  wind 
That    shakes    the    shutter,    to    have 

brought  to  mind 


12  MAJOR  ROBERT  GREGORY 

All  those  that  manhood  tried,  or  child- 
hood loved, 
Or  boyish  intellect  approved, 
With   some   appropriate    commentary 

on  each ; 
Until  imagination  brought 
A  fitter  welcome ;  but  a  thought 
Of  that  late  death  took  all  my  heart 
for  speech. 


AN   IRISH    AIRMAN    FORESEES 
HIS  DEATH 

I  know  that  I  shall  meet  my  fate 
Somewhere  among  the  clouds  above ; 
Those  that  I  fight  I  do  not  hate 
Those  that  I  guard  I  do  not  love ; 
My  country  is  Kiltartan  Cross, 
My  countrymen  Kiltartan's  poor, 
No  likely  end  could  bring  them  loss 
Or  leave  them  happier  than  before. 
Nor  law,  nor  duty  bade  me  fight, 
Nor  public  man,  nor  angry  crowds, 
A  lonely  impulse  of  delight 
Drove  to  this  tumult  in  the  clouds ; 
I  balanced  all,  brought  all  to  mind, 
The  years  to  come  seemed  waste  of 

breath, 
A  waste  of  breath  the  years  behind 
In  balance  with  this  life,  this  death. 

13 


MEN  IMPROVE  WITH  THE 
YEARS 

I  am  worn  out  with  dreams ; 

A  weather-worn,  marble  triton 

Among  the  streams ; 

And  all  day  long  I  look 

Upon  this  lady's  beauty 

As  though  I  had  found  in  book 

A  pictured  beauty, 

Pleased  to  have  filled  the  eyes 

Or  the  discerning  ears, 

Delighted  to  be  but  wise, 

For  men  improve  with  the  years ; 

And  yet  and  yet 

Is  this  my  dream,  or  the  truth  ? 

O  would  that  we  had  met 

When  I  had  my  burning  youth ; 

But  I  grow  old  among  dreams, 

A  weather-worn,  marble  triton 

Among  the  streams. 

14 


THE  COLLAR-BONE  OF  A 
HARE 

Would  I  could  cast  a  sail  on  the  water 

Where  many  a  king  has  gone 

And  many  a  king's  daughter, 

And  alight  at  the  comely  trees  and  the 
lawn, 

The  playing  upon  pipes  and  the  danc- 
ing, 

And  learn  that  the  best  thing  is 

To  change  my  loves  while  dancing 

And  pay  but  a  kiss  for  a  kiss. 

I  would  find  by  the  edge  of  that  water 
The  collar-bone  of  a  hare 
Worn  thin  by  the  lapping  of  water, 
And  pierce  it  through  with  a  gimlet 
and  stare 

15 


16  COLLAR-BONE   OF  A   HARE 

At   the   old   bitter   world   where   they 

marry  in  churches, 
And  laugh  over  the  untroubled  water 
At  all  who  marry  in  churches, 
Through  the  white  thin  bone  of  a  hare. 


^ 


UNDER  THE  ROUND  TOWER 

( 

*  Although  I'd  lie  lapped  up  in  linen 
A  deal  I'd  sweat  and  little  earn 
If  I  should  live  as  live  the  neighbours,' 
Cried  the  beggar,  Billy  Byrne ; 
'Stretch  bones  till  the  daylight  come 
On  great-grandfather's  battered  tomb.' 

Upon  a  grey  old  battered  tombstone 
In  Glendalough  beside  the  stream, 
Where  the  O'Byrnes  and  Byrnes  are 

buried, 
He  stretched  his  bones  and  fell  in  a 

dream 
Of  sun  and  moon  that  a  good  hour 
Bellowed   and   pranced   in   the   round 

tower ; 

c  17 


18  UNDER  THE  ROUND  TOWER 

Of  golden  king  and  silver  lady, 
Bellowing  up  and  bellowing  round, 
Till  toes  mastered  a  sweet  measure, 
Mouth  mastered  a  sweet  sound, 
Prancing  round  and  prancing  up 
Until  they  pranced  upon  the  top. 

That  golden  king  and  that  wild  lady 

Sang  till  stars  began  to  fade, 

Hands   gripped    in  hands,   toes    close 

together, 
Hair  spread  on  the  wind  they  made ; 
That  lady  and  that  golden  king 
Could  like  a  brace  of  blackbirds  sing. 

'It's  certain  that  my  luck  is  broken,' 
That  rambling  jailbird  Billy  said ; 
'Before  nightfall  I'll  pick  a  pocket 
And  snug  it  in  a  feather-bed, 
I  cannot  find  the  peace  of  home 
On  great-grandfather's  battered  tomb.' 


SOLOMON  TO  SHEBA 

Sang  Solomon  to  Sheba, 
And  kissed  her  dusky  face, 
'All  day  long  from  mid-day 
We  have  talked  in  the  one  place, 
All  day  long  from  shadowless  noon 
We  have  gone  round  and  round 
In  the  narrow  theme  of  love 
Like  an  old  horse  in  a  pound.' 

To  Solomon  sang  Sheba, 
Planted  on  his  knees, 
'  If  you  had  broached  a  matter 
That  might  the  learned  please, 
You  had  before  the  sun  had  thrown 
Our  shadows  on  the  ground 
Discovered  that  my  thoughts,  not  it, 
Are  but  a  narrow  pound.' 

19 


20       SOLOMON  TO  SHEBA 

Sang  Solomon  to  Sheba, 

And  kissed  her  Arab  eyes, 

'There's  not  a  man  or  woman 

Born  under  the  skies 

Dare  match  in  learning  with  us  two, 

And  all  day  long  we  have  found 

There's  not  a  thing  but  love  can  make 

The  world  a  narrow  pound.' 


THE  LIVING  BEAUTY 

I'll    say   and   maybe   dream   I   have 

drawn  content  — 
Seeing  that  time  has  frozen   up   the 

blood, 
The  wick  of  youth  being  burned  and 

the  oil  spent  — 
From   beauty   that   is   cast   out   of  a 

mould 
In  bronze,  or  that  in  dazzling  marble 

appears, 
Appears,  and  when  we  have  gone  is 

gone  again, 
Being  more  indifferent  to  our  solitude 
Than  'twere  an  apparition.     O  heart, 

we  are  old, 

The  living  beauty  is  for  younger  men, 

We  cannot  pay  its  tribute  of  wild  tears. 

21 


A  SONG 

I  thought  no  more  was  needed 
Youth  to  prolong 
Than  dumb-bell  and  foil 
To  keep  the  body  young. 
Oh,  who  could  have  foretold 
That  the  heart  grows  old  ? 

Though  I  have  many  words, 
What  woman's  satisfied, 
I  am  no  longer  faint 
Because  at  her  side  ? 
Oh,  who  could  have  foretold 
That  the  heart  grows  old  ? 

I  have  not  lost  desire 

But  the  heart  that  I  had, 

I  thought  'twould  burn  my  body 

Laid  on  the  death-bed. 

But  who  could  have  foretold 

That  the  heart  grows  old  ? 

22 


TO  A  YOUNG  BEAUTY 

Dear  fellow-artist,  why  so  free 

With  every  sort  of  company, 

With  every  Jack  and  Jill  ? 

Choose  your  companions  from  the  best ; 

Who  draws  a  bucket  with  the  rest 

Soon  topples  down  the  hill. 

You  may,  that  mirror  for  a  school, 

Be  passionate,  not  bountiful 

As  common  beauties  may, 

WTho  were  not  born  to  keep  in  trim 

With  old  Ezekiel's  cherubim 

But  those  of  Beaujolet. 

I  know  what  wages  beauty  gives, 
How  hard  a  life  her  servant  lives, 
Yet  praise  the  winters  gone ; 
There  is  not  a  fool  can  call  me  friend, 
And  I  may  dine  at  journey's  end 
With  Landor  and  with  Donne. 

23 


TO  A  YOUNG  GIRL 

My  dear,  my  dear,  I  know 

More  than  another 

What  makes  your  heart  beat  so ; 

Not  even  your  own  mother 

Can  know  it  as  I  know, 

Who  broke  my  heart  for  her 

When  the  wild  thought, 

That  she  denies 

And  has  forgot, 

Set  all  her  blood  astir 

And  glittered  in  her  eyes. 


24 


THE  SCHOLARS 

Bald  heads  forgetful  of  their  sins, 

Old,  learned,  respectable  bald  heads 

Edit  and  annotate  the  lines 

That  young  men,  tossing  on  their  beds, 

Rhymed  out  in  love's  despair 

To  flatter  beauty's  ignorant  ear. 

They'll  cough  in  the  ink  to  the  world's 

end; 
Wear  out  the  carpet  with  their  shoes 
Earning    respect;     have    no    strange 

friend ; 
If  they  have  sinned  nobody  knows. 
Lord,  what  would  they  say 
Should  their  Catullus  walk  that  way  ? 


25 


> 


TOM  O'ROUGHLEY 

'Though  logic  choppers  rule  the  town, 
And  every  man  and  maid  and  boy 
Has  marked  a  distant  object  down, 
An  aimless  joy  is  a  pure  joy,' 
Or  so  did  Tom  O'Roughley  say 
That  saw  the  surges  running  by, 
'And  wisdom  is  a  butterfly 
And  not  a  gloomy  bird  of  prey. 

'If  little  planned  is  little  sinned 
But  little  need  the  grave  distress. 
What's  dying  but  a  second  wind  ? 
How  but  in  zigzag  wantonness 
Could  trumpeter  Michael  be  so  brave  ? ' 
Or  something  of  that  sort  he  said, 
'And  if  my  dearest  friend  were  dead 
I'd  dance  a  measure  on  his  grave.' 

26 


THE  SAD   SHEPHERD 

Shepherd 

That  cry's  from  the  first  cuckoo  of 

the  year 
I  wished  before  it  ceased. 

Goatherd 

Nor  bird  nor  beast 
Could  make  me  wish  for  anything  this 

day, 
Being  old,  but  that  the  old  alone  might 

die, 
And    that    would    be    against    God's 

Providence. 
Let  the  young  wish.     But  what  has 

brought  you  here  ? 
Never  until  this  moment  have  we  met 

27 


28       THE   SAD   SHEPHERD 

Where  my  goats  browse  on  the  scarce 

grass  or  leap 
From  stone  to  stone. 


Shepherd 

I  am  looking  for  strayed  sheep ; 
Something    has    troubled    me    and    in 

my  trouble 
I  let  them  stray.     I  thought  of  rhyme 

alone, 
For  rhyme   can   beat   a   measure   out 

of  trouble 
And    make    the    daylight    sweet   once 

more ;   but  when 
I    had    driven    every    rhyme    into    its 

place 
The  sheep  had  gone  from  theirs. 

Goatherd 

I  know  right  well 
What  turned  so  good  a  shepherd  from 
his  charge. 


THE  SAD   SHEPHERD       29 

Shepherd 

He   that   was   best   in   every   country 

sport 
And  every  country  craft,  and  of  us 

all 
Most  courteous  to  slow  age  and  hasty 

youth 
Is  dead. 

Goatherd 

The  boy  that  brings  my  griddle 
cake 
Brought  the  bare  news. 

Shepherd 

He  had  thrown  the  crook  away 
And  died  in  the  great  war  beyond  the 
sea. 

Goatherd 

He  had  often  played  his  pipes  among 
my  hills 


30       THE   SAD   SHEPHERD 

And    when    he    played    it    was    their 

loneliness, 
The  exultation  of  their  stone,  that  cried 
Under  his  fingers. 

Shepherd 
I  had  it   from  his  mother, 
And   his   own  flock  was   browsing  at 
the  door. 

Goatherd 
How  does  she  bear  her  grief?     There 

is  not  a  shepherd 
But  grows  more  gentle  when  he  speaks 

her  name, 
Remembering  kindness  done,  and  how 

can  I, 
That  found  when  I  had  neither  goat 

nor  grazing 
New  welcome  and  old  wisdom  at  her  fire 
Till  winter  blasts  were  gone,  but  speak 

of  her 
Even  before  his  children  and  his  wife. 


THE   SAD   SHEPHERD       31 

Shepherd 

She  goes  about  her  house  erect  and 

calm 
Between    the    pantry    and    the    linen 

chest, 
Or  else  at  meadow  or  at  grazing  over- 
looks 
Her    labouring    men,    as    though    her 

darling  lived 
But  for  her  grandson  now ;    there  is 

no  change 
But   such   as   I   have   seen   upon   her 

face 
Watching     our     shepherd     sports     at 

harvest-time 
When  her  son's  turn  was  over. 

Goatherd 

Sing  your  song, 
I  too  have  rhymed  my  reveries,  but 

youth 
Is  hot  to  show  whatever  it  has  found 


32       THE   SAD   SHEPHERD 

And  till  that's  done  can  neither  work 
nor  wait. 

Old  goatherds  and  old  goats,  if  in  all 
else 

Youth  can  excel  them  in  accomplish- 
ment, 

Are  learned  in  waiting. 

Shepherd 

You  cannot  but  have  seen 
That  he  alone  had  gathered  up  no  gear, 
Set   carpenters   to   work   on   no   wide 

table, 
On  no  long  bench  nor  lofty  milking 

shed 
As  others  will,   when  first  they  take 

possession, 
But  left  the  house  as  in  his  father's 

time 
As  though  he  knew  himself,  as  it  were, 

a  cuckoo, 
No  settled  man.     And  now  that  he  is 

gone 


THE   SAD   SHEPHERD       33 

There's  nothing  of  him  left  but  half 

a  score 
Of  sorrowful,  austere,  sweet,  lofty  pipe 

tunes. 

Goatherd 
You  have  put  the  thought  in  rhyme. 

Shepherd 

I  worked  all  day 
And  when  'twas  done  so  little  had  I 

done 
That   maybe    'I    am    sorry'    in   plain 

prose 
Had  sounded  better  to  your  mountain 
fancy 

[He  sings. 
6  Like  the  speckled  bird  that  steers 
Thousands  of  leagues  oversea, 
And  runs  for  a  while  or  a  while  half- 

flies 
Upon    his    yellow    legs    through    our 
meadows, 


34       THE   SAD   SHEPHERD 

He  stayed  for  a  while ;   and  we 
Had  scarcely  accustomed  our  ears 
To  his  speech  at  the  break  of  day, 
Had  scarcely  accustomed  our  eyes 
To    his    shape    in    the    lengthening 

shadows, 
Where  the  sheep  are  thrown  in  the 

pool, 
When  he  vanished  from  ears  and  eyes. 
I  had  wished  a  dear  thing  on  that 

day 
I  heard  him  first,  but  man  is  a  fool.' 


Goatherd 

You    sing   as   always   of   the   natural 

life, 
And  I  that  made  like  music  in  my 

youth 
Hearing  it  now  have  sighed  for  that 

young  man 
And   certain   lost   companions   of  my 

own. 


THE   SAD   SHEPHERD       35 

Shepherd 

They  say  that  on  your  barren  moun- 
tain ridge 

You  have  measured  out  the  road  that 
the  soul  treads 

When  it  has  vanished  from  our  natural 
eves ; 

That  you  have  talked  with  apparitions. 

Goatherd 

Indeed 
My    daily    thoughts    since    the    first 

stupor  of  youth 
Have  found  the  path  my  goats'  feet 
cannot  find. 

Shepherd 

Sing,  for  it  may  be  that  your  thoughts 

have  plucked 
Some    medicable    herb    to    make    our 

grief 
Less  bitter. 


36       THE  SAD   SHEPHERD 

Goatherd 

They  have  brought  me  from  that 
ridge 
Seed  pods  and  flowers  that  are  not 
all  wild  poppy. 

[Si?igs. 
'  He  grows  younger  every  second 
That  were  all  his  birthdays  reckoned 
Much  too  solemn  seemed  ; 
Because  of  what  he  had  dreamed, 
Or  the  ambitions  that  he  served, 
Much  too  solemn  and  reserved. 
Jaunting,  journeying 
To  his  own  day  spring, 
He  unpacks  the  loaded  pern 
Of  all  'twas  pain  or  joy  to  learn, 
Of  all  that  he  had  made. 
The  outrageous  war  shall  fade ; 
At  some  old  winding  whitethorn  root 
He'll  practice  on  the  shepherd's  flute, 
Or  on  the  close-cropped  grass 
Court  his  shepherd  lass, 


THE  SAD  SHEPHERD       37 

Or  run  where  lads  reform  our  day- 
time 
Till  that  is  their  long  shouting  play- 
time; 
Knowledge  he  shall  unwind 
Through  victories  of  the  mind, 
Till,  clambering  at  the  cradle  side, 
He  dreams  himself  his  mother's  pride, 
All  knowledge  lost  in  trance 
Of  sweeter  ignorance.' 

Shepherd 

When  I  have  shut  these  ewes  and  this 
old  ram 

Into  the  fold,  we'll  to  the  woods  and 
there 

Cut  out  our  rhymes  on  strips  of  new- 
torn  bark 

But  put  no  name  and  leave  them  at 
her  door. 

To  know  the  mountain  and  the  valley 
grieve 


38       THE  SAD   SHEPHERD 

May  be  a  quiet  thought  to  wife  and 

mother, 
And    children    when    they    spring    up 

shoulder  high. 


LINES  WRITTEN  IN 
DEJECTION 

When  have  I  last  looked  on 

The  round   green  eyes   and   the  long 

wavering  bodies 
Of  the  dark  leopards  of  the  moon  ? . 
All  the  wild  witches  those  most  noble 

ladies, 
For  all  their  broom-sticks  and  their 

tears, 
Their  angry  tears,  are  gone. 
The   holy    centaurs    of    the   hills    are 

banished ; 
And  I  have  nothing  but  harsh  sun ; 
Heroic  mother  moon  has  vanished, 
And  now  that  I  have  come  to  fifty 

years 
I  must  endure  the  timid  sun. 

39 


THE   DAWN 

I  would  be  ignorant  as  the  dawn 

That  has  looked  down 

On  that  old  queen  measuring  a  town 

With  the  pin  of  a  brooch, 

Or  on  the  withered  men  that  saw 

From  their  pedantic  Babylon 

The  careless  planets  in  their  courses, 

The  stars  fade  out  where  the  moon 
comes, 

And  took  their  tablets  and  did  sums; 

I  would  be  ignorant  as  the  dawn 

That  merely  stood,  rocking  the  glitter- 
ing coach 

Above  the  cloudy  shoulders  of  the 
horses ; 

I  would  be  —  for  no  knowledge  is 
worth  a  straw  — 

Ignorant  and  wanton  as  the  dawn. 

40 


ON  WOMAN 

May  God  be  praised  for  woman 
That  gives  up  all  her  mind, 
A  man  may  find  in  no  man 
A  friendship  of  her  kind 
That  covers  all  he  has  brought 
As  with  her  flesh  and  bone, 
Nor  quarrels  with  a  thought 
Because  it  is  not  her  own. 

Though  pedantry  denies 
It's  plain  the  Bible  means 
That  Solomon  grew  wise 
While  talking  with  his  queens. 
Yet  never  could,  although 
They  say  he  counted  grass, 
Count  all  the  praises  due 

41 


42  ON  WOMAN 

When  Sheba  was  his  lass, 

When  she  the  iron  wrought,  or 

When  from  the  smithy  fire 

It  shuddered  in  the  water : 

Harshness  of  their  desire 

That  made  them  stretch  and  yawn, 

Pleasure  that  comes  with  sleep, 

Shudder  that  made  them  one. 

What  else  He  give  or  keep 

God  grant  me  —  no,  not  here, 

For  I  am  not  so  bold 

To  hope  a  thing  so  dear 

Now  I  am  growing  old, 

But  when  if  the  tale's  true 

The  Pestle  of  the  moon 

That  pounds  up  all  anew 

Brings  me  to  birth  again  — 

To  find  what  once  I  had 

And  know  what  once  I  have  known, 

Until  I  am  driven  mad, 

Sleep  driven  from  my  bed, 

By  tenderness  and  care, 

Pity,  an  aching  head, 


ON  WOMAN  43 


Gnashing  of  teeth,  despair ; 
And  all  because  of  some  one 
Perverse  creature  of  chance, 
And  live  like  Solomon 
That  Sheba  led  a  dance. 


THE  FISHERMAN 

Although  I  can  see  him  still, 
The  freckled  man  who  goes 
To  a  grey  place  on  a  hill 
In  grey  Connemara  clothes 
At  dawn  to  cast  his  flies, 
It's  long  since  I  began 
To  call  up  to  the  eyes 
This  wise  and  simple  man. 
All  day  I'd  looked  in  the  face 
What  I  had  hoped  'twould  be 
To  write  for  my  own  race 
And  the  reality ; 
The  living  men  that  I  hate, 
The  dead  man  that  I  loved, 
The  craven  man  in  his  seat, 
The  insolent  unreproved, 
And  no  knave  brought  to  book 
Who  has  won  a  drunken  cheer, 

44 


THE  FISHERMAN  45 

The  witty  man  and  his  joke 
Aimed  at  the  commonest  ear, 
The  clever  man  who  cries 
The  catch-cries  of  the  clown, 
The  beating  down  of  the  wise 
And  great  Art  beaten  down. 

Maybe  a  twelvemonth  since 

Suddenly  I  began, 

In  scorn  of  this  audience, 

Imagining  a  man 

And  his  sun-freckled  face, 

And  grey  Connemara  cloth, 

Climbing  up  to  a  place 

Where  stone  is  dark  under  froth, 

And  the  down  turn  of  his  wrist 

When  the  flies  drop  in  the  stream : 

A  man  who  does  not  exist, 

A  man  who  is  but  a  dream ; 

And  cried,  'Before  I  am  old 

I  shall  have  written  him  one 

Poem  maybe  as  cold 

And  passionate  as  the  dawn.' 


THE  HAWK 

*  Call  down  the  hawk  from  the  air ; 

Let  him  be  hooded  or  caged 

Till  the  yellow  eye  has  grown  mild, 

For  larder  and  spit  are  bare, 

The  old  cook  enraged, 

The  scullion  gone  wild.' 

'I  will  not  be  clapped  in  a  hood, 
Nor  a  cage,  nor  alight  upon  wrist, 
Now  I  have  learnt  to  be  proud 
Hovering  over  the  wood 
In  the  broken  mist 
Or  tumbling  cloud.' 

'What  tumbling  cloud  did  you  cleave, 
Yellow-eyed  hawk  of  the  mind, 
Last  evening  ?  that  I,  who  had  sat 
Dumbfounded  before  a  knave, 
Should  give  to  my  friend 
A  pretence  of  wit.' 

46 


MEMORY 

One  had  a  lovely  face, 
And  two  or  three  had  charm, 
But  charm  and  face  were  in  vain 
Because  the  mountain  grass 
Cannot  but  keep  the  form 
Where  the  mountain  hare  has  lain. 


47 


HER   PRAISE 

She  is  foremost  of  those  that  I  would 

hear  praised. 
I  have  gone  about  the  house,  gone  up 

and  down 
As  a  man  does  who  has  published  a 

new  book 
Or  a  young  girl  dressed  out  in  her  new 

gown, 
And  though  I  have  turned  the  talk  by 

hook  or  crook 
Until  her  praise  should  be  the  upper- 
most theme, 
A  woman  spoke  of  some  new  tale  she 

had  read, 
A  man  confusedly  in  a  half  dream 
As   though   some   other  name   ran   in 

his  head. 

48 


HER  PRAISE  49 

She  is  foremost  of  those  that  I  would 

hear  praised. 
I  will  talk  no  more  of  books  or  the  long 

war 
But  walk   by   the   dry   thorn   until  I 

have  found 
Some  beggar  sheltering  from  the  wind, 

and  there 
Manage  the  talk  until  her  name  come 

round. 
If  there  be  rags  enough  he  will  know 

her  name 
And  be  well  pleased  remembering  it, 

for  in  the  old  days, 
Though  she  had  young  men's  praise 

and  old  men's  blame, 
Among  the  poor  both  old  and  young 

gave  her  praise. 


THE   PEOPLE 

'What    have    I    earned    for   all    that 

work/  I  said, 
'For  all  that  I  have  done  at  my  own 

charge  ? 
The   daily    spite   of    this   unmannerly 

town, 
Where   who   has   served   the   most   is 

most  defamed, 
The  reputation  of  his  lifetime  lost 
Between   the   night   and   morning.     I 

might  have  lived, 
And  you   know   well    how   great   the 

longing  has  been, 
Where  every  day  my  footfall  should 

have  lit 
In  the  green  shadow  of  Ferrara  wall ; 

50 


THE   PEOPLE  51 

Or  climbed  among  the  images  of  the 

past  — 
The  unperturbed  and  courtly  images  — 
Evening  and  morning,  the  steep  street 

of  Urbino 
To  where  the  duchess  and  her  people 

talked 
The    stately    midnight    through    until 

they  stood 
In  their  great  window  looking  at  the 

dawn ; 
I  might  have  had  no  friend  that  could 

not  mix 
Courtesy    and   passion    into    one    like 

those 
That  saw  the  wicks  grow  yellow  in  the 

dawn; 

I  might  have  used  the  one  substantial 
right 

My  trade  allows :  chosen  my  com- 
pany, 

And  chosen  what  scenery  had  pleased 
me  best.' 


52  THE  PEOPLE 

Thereon  my  phoenix  answered  in  re- 
proof, 

'The  drunkards,  pilferers  of  public 
funds, 

All  the  dishonest  crowd  I  had  driven 
away, 

When  my  luck  changed  and  they  dared 
meet  my  face, 

Crawled  from  obscurity,  and  set  upon 
me 

Those  I  had  served  and  some  that  I 
had  fed ; 

Yet  never  have  I,  now  nor  any  time, 

Complained  of  the  people.' 

All  I  could  reply 
Was :    '  You,  that  have  not  lived   in 

thought  but  deed, 
Can  have  the  purity  of  a  natural  force, 
But  I,  whose  virtues  are  the  definitions 
Of  the  analytic  mind,  can  neither  close 
The   eye   of   the   mind   nor   keep   my 

tongue  from  speech.' 


THE   PEOPLE  53 

And  yet,  because  my  heart  leaped  at 

her  words, 
I  was  abashed,   and  now  they  come 

to  mind 
After    nine    years,    I    sink    my    head 

abashed. 


his  phoenix; 

There  is  a  queen  in  China,  or  maybe 
it's  in  Spain, 

And  birthdays  and  holidays  such 
praises  can  be  heard 

Of  her  unblemished  lineaments,  a  white- 
ness with  no  stain, 

That  she  might  be  that  sprightly  girl 
who  was  trodden  by  a  bird ; 

And  there's  a  score  of  duchesses,  sur- 
passing womankind, 

Or  who  have  found  a  painter  to  make 
them  so  for  pay 

And  smooth  out  stain  and  blemish 
with  the  elegance  of  his  mind : 

I  knew  a  phoenix  in  my  youth  so  let 
them  have  their  day. 

54 


HIS   PHOENIX  55 

The  young  men  every  night  applaud 

their  Gaby's  laughing  eye, 
And  Ruth  St.  Denis  had  more  charm 

although  she  had  poor  luck, 
From  nineteen  hundred  nine  or  ten, 

Pavlova's  had  the  cry, 
And  there's  a  player  in  the  States  who 

gathers  up  her  cloak 
And  flings  herself  out  of  the  room  when 

Juliet  would  be  bride 
With  all  a  woman's  passion,  a  child's 

imperious  way, 
And  there  are  —  but  no  matter  if  there 

are  scores  beside : 
I  knew  a  phoenix  in  my  youth  so  let 

them  have  their  day. 

There's   Margaret   and   Marjorie   and 

Dorothy  and  Nan, 
A  Daphne  and   a   Mary  who  live   in 

privacy ; 
One's  had  her  fill  of  lovers,  another's 

had  but  one, 


56  HIS  PHOENIX 

Another   boasts,    'I   pick   and   choose 

and  have  but  two  or  three.' 
If  head  and  limb  have  beauty  and  the 

instep's  high  and  light, 
They  can  spread  out  what  sail  they 

please  for  all  I  have  to  say, 
Be  but  the  breakers  of  men's  hearts  or 

engines  of  delight : 
I  knew  a  phoenix  in  my  youth  so  let 

them  have  their  day. 

There'll  be  that  crowd  to  make  men 
wild  through  all  the  centuries, 

And  maybe  there'll  be  some  young 
belle  walk  out  to  make  men  wild 

Who  is  my  beauty's  equal,  though  that 
my  heart  denies, 

But  not  the  exact  likeness,  the  sim- 
plicity of  a  child, 

And  that  proud  look  as  though  she 
had  gazed  into  the  burning  sun, 

And  all  the  shapely  body  no  tittle  gone 
astray, 


HIS  PHOENIX  57 

I  mourn  for  that  most  lonely  thing ; 

and  yet  God's  will  be  done, 
I  knew  a  phoenix  in  my  youth  so  let 

them  have  their  day. 


A  THOUGHT  FROM  PROPERTIUS 

She  might,  so  noble  from  head 
To  great  shapely  knees, 
The  long  flowing  line, 
Have  walked  to  the  altar 
Through  the  holy  images 
At  Pallas  Athene's  side, 
Or  been  fit  spoil  for  a  centaur 
Drunk  with  the  unmixed  wine. 


58 


BROKEN  DREAMS 

There  is  grey  in  your  hair. 

Young  men  no  longer  suddenly  catch 

their  breath 
When  you  are  passing ; 
But  maybe  some  old  gaffer  mutters  a 

blessing 
Because  it  was  your  prayer 
Recovered  him  upon  the  bed  of  death. 
For  your  sole  sake  —  that  all  heart's 

ache  have  known, 
And  given  to  others  all  heart's  ache, 
From  meagre  girlhood's  putting  on 
Burdensome    beauty  —  for    your    sole 

sake 
Heaven  has  put  away  the  stroke  of  her 

doom, 

59 


60  BROKEN  DREAMS 

So  great  her  portion  in  that  peace  you 

make 
By  merely  walking  in  a  room. 

Your  beauty  can  but  leave  among  us 

Vague  memories,  nothing  but  mem- 
ories. 

A  young  man  when  the  old  men  are 
done  talking 

Will  say  to  an  old  man,  'Tell  me  of 
that  lady 

The  poet  stubborn  with  his  passion 
sang  us 

When  age  might  well  have  chilled  his 
blood.' 

Vague  memories,  nothing  but  mem- 
ories, 

But  in  the  grave  all,  all,  shall  be 
renewed. 

The  certainty  that  I  shall  see  that 
lady 

Leaning  or  standing  or  walking 


BROKEN  DREAMS  61 

In  the  first  loveliness  of  womanhood, 
And  with  the  fervour  of  my  youthful 

eyes, 
Has  set  me  muttering  like  a  fool. 

You  are  more  beautiful  than  any 
one 

And  yet  your  body  had  a  flaw : 

Your  small  hands  were  not  beautiful, 

And  I  am  afraid  that  you  will  run 

And  paddle  to  the  wrist 

In  that  mysterious,  always  brimming 
lake 

Where  those  that  have  obeyed  the 
holy  law 

Paddle  and  are  perfect;  leave  un- 
changed 

The  hands  that  I  have  kissed 

For  old  sakes'  sake. 

The  last  stroke  of  midnight  dies. 
All  day  in  the  one  chair 


62  BROKEN   DREAMS 

From  dream  to  dream  and  rhyme  to 

rhyme  I  have  ranged 
In  rambling  talk  with  an  image  of  air : 
Vague   memories,   nothing   but   mem- 
ories. 


A  DEEP-SWORN  VOW 

Others  because  you  did  not  keep 
That  deep-sworn  vow  have  been  friends 

of  mine ; 
Yet  always  when  I  look  death  in  the 

face, 
When    I    clamber    to    the    heights    of 

sleep, 
Or  when  I  grow  excited  with  wine, 
Suddenly  I  meet  your  face. 


63 


PRESENCES 

This  night  has  been  so  strange  that  it 

seemed 
As  if  the  hair  stood  up  on  my  head. 
From  going-down  of  the  sun  I  have 

dreamed 
That    women   laughing,   or   timid    or 

wild, 
In  rustle  of  lace  or  silken  stuff, 
Climbed  up  my  creaking  stair.     They 

had  read 
All  I  had  rhymed  of  that  monstrous 

thing 
Returned  and  yet  unrequited  love. 
They    stood    in    the    door   and    stood 

between 
My  great  wood  lecturn  and  the  fire 

64 


PRESENCES  65 

Till  I  could  hear  their  hearts  beating : 

One  is  a  harlot,  and  one  a  child 

That    never    looked    upon    man    with 

desire, 
And  one  it  may  be  a  queen. 


F 


THE    BALLOON  OF   THE    MIND 

Hands,  do  what  you're  bid ; 
Bring  the  balloon  of  the  mind 
That  bellies  and  drags  in  the  wind 
Into  its  narrow  shed. 


66 


TO  A  SQUIRREL  AT  KYLE 
NA-GNO 

Come  play  with  me ; 
Why  should  you  run 
Through  the  shaking  tree 
As  though  I'd  a  gun 
To  strike  you  dead  ? 
When  all  I  would  do 
Is  to  scratch  your  head 
And  let  you  go. 


67 


ON  BEING  ASKED  FOR  A 
WAR  POEM 

I  think  it  better  that  in  times  like 

these 
A  poet  keep  his  mouth  shut,  for  in 

truth 
We  have  no  gift  to  set  a  statesman 

right ; 
He  has  had  enough  of  meddling  who 

can  please 
A  young  girl  in  the  indolence  of  her 

youth, 
Or  an  old  man  upon  a  winter's  night. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  ALFRED 
POLLEXFEN 

Five-and-twenty  years  have  gone 

Since  old  William  Pollexfen 

Laid  his  strong  bones  down  in  death 

By  his  wife  Elizabeth 

In  the  grey  stone  tomb  he  made. 

And  after  twenty  years  they  laid 

In  that  tomb  by  him  and  her, 

His  son  George,  the  astrologer ; 

And  Masons  drove  from  miles  away 

To  scatter  the  Acacia  spray 

Upon  a  melancholy  man 

Who    had    ended    where    his    breath 

began. 
Many  a  son  and  daughter  lies 
Far  from  the  customary  skies, 

69 


70       ALFRED   POLLEXFEN 

The  Mall  and  Eades's  grammar  school, 

In  London  or  in  Liverpool ; 

But  where  is  laid  the  sailor  John  ? 

That  so  many  lands  had  known : 

Quiet  lands  or  unquiet  seas 

Where  the  Indians  trade  or  Japanese. 

He  never  found  his  rest  ashore, 

Moping  for  one  voyage  more. 

Where  have  they  laid  the  sailor  John  ? 

And  yesterday  the  youngest  son, 
A  humorous,  unambitious  man, 
Wras  buried  near  the  astrologer ; 
And  are  we  now  in  the  tenth  year  ? 
Since    he,    who    had    been    contented 

long, 
A  nobody  in  a  great  throng, 
Decided  he  would  journey  home, 
Now  that  his  fiftieth  year  had  come, 
And  'Mr.  Alfred'  be  again 
Upon  the  lips  of  common  men 
Who  carried  in  their  memory 
His  childhood  and  his  family. 


ALFRED  POLLEXFEN       71 

At  all  these  death-beds  women  heard 
A  visionary  white  sea-bird 
Lamenting  that  a  man  should  die ; 
And  with  that  cry  I  have  raised  my 
cry. 


UPON  A  DYING  LADY 


HER   COURTESY 

With  the  old  kindness,  the  old  dis- 
tinguished grace 

She  lies,  her  lovely  piteous  head  amid 
dull  red  hair 

Propped  upon  pillows,  rouge  on  the 
pallor  of  her  face. 

She  would  not  have  us  sad  because  she 
is  lying  there, 

And  when  she  meets  our  gaze  her  eyes 
are  laughter-lit, 

Her  speech  a  wicked  tale  that  we  may 
vie  with  her 

72 


UPON  A  DYING  LADY      73 

Matching     our     broken-hearted     wit 

against  her  wit, 
Thinking   of   saints  and  of  Petronius 

Arbiter. 


ii 


CERTAIN   ARTISTS    BRING   HER 
DOLLS   AND   DRAWINGS 

Bring  where  our  Beauty  lies 

A  new  modelled  doll,  or  drawing, 

With  a  friend's  or  an  enemy's 

Features,  or  maybe  showing 

Her  features  when  a  tress 

Of  dull  red  hair  was  flowing 

Over  some  silken  dress 

Cut  in  the  Turkish  fashion, 

Or  it  may  be  like  a  boy's. 

We  have  given  the  world  our  passion 

We  have  naught  for  death  but  toys. 


74      UPON  A   DYING   LADY 


in 


SHE  TURNS  THE  DOLLS'  FACES  TO 
THE  WALL 

Because     to-day     is     some     religious 

festival 
They  had  a  priest  say  Mass,  and  even 

the  Japanese, 
Heel  up  and  weight  on  toe,  must  face 

the  wall 
—  Pedant  in  passion,   learned   in  old 

courtesies, 
Vehement  and  witty  she  had  seemed — ; 

the  Venetian  lady 
Who  had  seemed  to  glide  to  some  in- 
trigue in  her  red  shoes, 
Her  domino,  her  panniered  skirt  copied 

from  Longhi ; 
The  meditative  critic ;   all  are  on  their 

toes, 
Even   our   Beauty   with   her   Turkish 

trousers  on. 


UPON  A  DYING  LADY      75 

Because    the    priest    must    have    like 

every  dog  his  day 
Or  keep  us  all  awake  with  baying  at 

the  moon, 
We  and  our  dolls  being  but  the  world 

were  best  away. 

IV 

THE    END    OF    DAY 

She  is  playing  like  a  child 
And  penance  is  the  play, 
Fantastical  and  wild 
Because  the  end  of  day 
Shows  her  that  some  one  soon 
Will  come  from  the  house,  and  say  — 
Though  play  is  but  half-done  — 
'Come  in  and  leave  the  play.'  — 


HER   RACE 

She  has  not  grown  uncivil 
As  narrow  natures  would 


76      UPON  A   DYING  LADY 

And  called  the  pleasures  evil 
Happier  days  thought  good ; 
She  knows  herself  a  woman 
No  red  and  white  of  a  face, 
Or  rank,  raised  from  a  common 
Unreckonable  race ; 
And  how  should  her  heart  fail  her 
Or  sickness  break  her  will 
With  her  dead  brother's  valour 
For  an  example  still. 


VI 
HER   COURAGE 

When  her  soul  flies  to  the  predestined 

dancing-place 
(I   have   no   speech   but   symbol,    the 

pagan  speech  I  made 
Amid   the   dreams   of   youth)    let  her 

come  face  to  face, 
While  wondering  still  to  be  a  shade, 

with  Grania's  shade 


UPON  A   DYING  LADY      77 

All    but   the   perils   of   the   woodland 

flight  forgot 
That   made   her    Dermuid    dear,    and 

some  old  cardinal 
Pacing   with   half-closed   eyelids   in   a 

sunny  spot 
Who  had  murmured  of  Giorgione  at 

his  latest  breath  — 
Aye  and  Achilles,  Timor,  Babar,  Bar- 

haim,  all 
Who  have   lived  in   joy  and  laughed 

into  the  face  of  Death. 

VII 

HER   FRIENDS    BRING    HER   A 
CHRISTMAS    TREE 

Pardon,  great  enemy, 
Without  an  angry  thought 
WVve  carried  in  our  tree, 
And  here  and  there  have  bought 
Till  all  the  boughs  are  gay, 
And  she  may  look  from  the  bed 


78      UPON  A  DYING  LADY 

On  pretty  things  that  may 
Please  a  fantastic  head. 
Give  her  a  little  grace, 
What  if  a  laughing  eye 
Have  looked  into  your  face  — 
It  is  about  to  die. 


EGO  DOMINUS  TUUS 
Hie 

On  the  grey  sand  beside  the  shallow 
stream 

Under  your  old  wind-beaten  tower, 
where  still 

A  lamp  burns  on  beside  the  open 
book 

That  Michael  Robartes  left,  you  walk 
in  the  moon 

And  though  you  have  passed  the  best 
of  life  still  trace 

Enthralled  by  the  unconquerable  de- 
lusion 

Magical  shapes. 

79 


80       EGO  DOMINUS  TUUS 

Ille 

By  the  help  of  an  image 
I  call  to  my  own  opposite,  summon  all 
That  I  have  handled  least,  least  looked 
upon. 

Hie 

And  I  would  find  myself  and  not  an 
image. 

Ille 

That  is  our  modern  hope  and  by  its 

light 
We  have  lit  upon  the  gentle,  sensitive 

mind 
And  lost  the  old  nonchalance  of  the 

hand ; 
Whether  we  have  chosen  chisel,  pen 

or  brush 
We  are  but  critics,  or  but  half  create, 
Timid,  entangled,  empty  and  abashed 
Lacking  the  countenance  of  our  friends. 


EGO  DOMINUS  TUUS        81 

Hie 

And  yet 
The  chief  imagination  of  Christendom 
Dante  Alighieri  so  utterly  found  him- 
self 
That  he  has  made  that  hollow  face  of 

his 
More  plain  to  the  mind's  eye  than  any 

face 
But  that  of  Christ. 

Ille 

And  did  he  find  himself, 
Or  was  the  hunger  that  had  made  it 

hollow 
A  hunger  for  the  apple  on  the  bough 
Most  out  of  reach  ?  and  is  that  spectral 

image 
The  man  that  Lapo  and   that  Guido 

knew  ? 
I  think  he  fashioned  from  his  opposite 
An    image    that   might   have   been    a 

stony  face, 

G 


82       EGO  DOMINUS  TUUS 

Staring  upon  a  bedouin's  horse-hair 
roof 

From  doored  and  windowed  cliff,  or 
half  upturned 

Among  the  coarse  grass  and  the  camel 
dung. 

He  set  his  chisel  to  the  hardest  stone. 

Being  mocked  by  Guido  for  his  lecher- 
ous life, 

Derided  and  deriding,  driven  out 

To  climb  that  stair  and  eat  that  bitter 
bread, 

He  found  the  unpersuadable  justice, 
he  found 

The  most  exalted  lady  loved  by  a  man. 

Hie 

Yet  surely  there  are  men  who  have 

made  their  art 
Out  of  no  tragic  war,  lovers  of  life, 
Impulsive  men  that  look  for  happiness 
And  sing  when  they  have  found  it. 


EGO  DOMINUS  TUUS       83 

Ille 

No,  not  sing, 
For  those  that  love  the  world  serve  it 

in  action, 
Grow  rich,  popular  and  full  of  influence, 
And  should  they  paint  or  write  still 

it  is  action : 
The  struggle  of  the  fly  in  marmalade. 
The    rhetorician    would    deceive    his 

neighbours, 
The  sentimentalist  himself;    while  art 
Is  but  a  vision  of  reality. 
What   portion   in   the   world   can   the 

artist  have 
Who  has  awakened  from  the  common 

dream 
But  dissipation  and  despair  ? 

Hie 

And  yet 
No  one  denies  to  Keats  love  of  the 

world ; 
Remember  his  deliberate  happiness. 


84       EGO  DOMINUS  TUUS 

Ille 

His  art  is  happy  but  who  knows  his 

mind  ? 
I  see  a  schoolboy  when  I  think  of  him, 
With  face  and  nose  pressed  to  a  sweet- 
shop window, 
For  certainly  he  sank  into  his  grave 
His  senses  and  his  heart  unsatisfied, 
And    made  —  being   poor,    ailing   and 

ignorant, 
Shut  out  from  all  the  luxury  of  the 

world, 
The  coarse-bred  son  of  a  livery  stable- 
keeper  — 
Luxuriant  song. 

Hie 

Why  should  you  leave  the  lamp 
Burning  alone  beside  an  open  book. 
And  trace  these  characters  upon  the 

sands ; 
A  style  is  found  by  sedentary  toil 
And  by  the  imitation  of  great  masters. 


EGO  DOMINUS  TUUS       85 
Ille 

Because  I  seek  an  image,  not  a  book. 
Those  men  that  in  their  writings  are 

most  wise 
Own  nothing  but  their  blind,  stupefied 

hearts. 
I  call  to  the  mysterious  one  who  yet 
Shall  walk  the  wet  sands  by  the  edge 

of  the  stream 
And  look  most  like  me,  being  indeed 

my  double, 
And  prove  of  all  imaginable  things 
The  most  unlike,  being  my  anti-self, 
And    standing    by    these    characters 

disclose 
All  that  I   seek;    and   whisper   it   as 

though 
He  were  afraid  the  birds,  who  cry  aloud 
Their    momentary    cries    before    it    is 

dawn, 
Would  carry  it  away  to  blasphemous 

men. 


A  PRAYER  ON  GOING  INTO 
MY  HOUSE 

God   grant  a  blessing  on  this  tower 

and  cottage 
And  on  my  heirs,   if  all  remain   un- 
spoiled, 
No  table,  or  chair  or  stool  not  simple 

enough 
For    shepherd    lads    in    Galilee;     and 

grant 
That    I    myself    for    portions    of    the 

year 
May  handle  nothing  and  set  eyes  on 

nothing 
But   what    the    great    and    passionate 

have  used 
Throughout  so  many  varying  centuries. 

86 


A   PRAYER  87 

We  take  it  for  the  norm ;    yet  should 

I  dream 
Sinbad  the  sailor's  brought  a  painted 

chest, 
Or  image,  from  beyond  the  Loadstone 

Mountain 
That  dream  is  a  norm ;    and  should 

some  limb  of  the  devil 
Destroy  the  view  by  cutting  down  an 

ash 
That  shades  the  road,  or  setting  up  a 

cottage 
Planned     in     a     government     office, 

shorten  his  life, 
Manacle  his  soul  upon  the  Red   Sea 

bottom. 


THE   PHASES  OF  THE   MOON 

An   old   ma?i   cocked   his   ear   upon   a 

bridge  ; 
He   and  his  friend,   their  faces   to  the 

South, 
Had  trod  the  uneven  road.     Their  boots 

were  soiled, 
Their    Connemara    cloth    worn    out    of 

shape; 
They  had  kept  a  steady  pace  as  though 

their  beds, 
Despite  a  dwindling  and  late  risen  moon, 
Were  distant.     An  old  man  cocked  his 

ear. 

Ah ERNE 
What  made  that  sound  ? 

88 


THE  PHASES  OF  THE  MOON    89 

ROBARTES 

A  rat  or  water-hen 
Splashed,    or   an    otter    slid    into    the 

stream. 
We  are  on  the  bridge;    that  shadow 

is  the  tower, 
And  the  light  proves  that  he  is  reading 

still. 
He  has  found,  after  the  manner  of  his 

kind, 
Mere   images;     chosen   this   place   to 

live  in 
Because,  it  may  be,  of  the  candle  light 
From   the   far   tower   where   Milton's 

platonist 
Sat  late,  or  Shelley's  visionary  prince : 
The  lonely  light  that  Samuel  Palmer 

engraved, 
An  image  of  mysterious  wisdom  won 

by  toil ; 
And  now  he  seeks  in  book  or  manu- 
script 
What  he  shall  never  find. 


90    THE  PHASES  OF  THE  MOON 

Aherne 

Why  should  not  you 
Who  know  it  all  ring  at  his  door,  and 

speak 
Just  truth   enough  to   show  that  his 

whole  life 
Will  scarcely  find  for  him  a  broken 

crust 
Of  all  those  truths  that  are  your  daily 

bread ; 
And  when  you  have  spoken  take  the 

roads  again  ? 


Robartes 

He  wrote  of  me  in  that  extravagant 

style 
He    had    learnt    from    Pater,    and    to 

round  his  tale 
Said  I  was  dead ;    and  dead  I  chose 

to  be. 


THE  PHASES  OF  THE  MOON    91 

Aherne 

Sing  me  the  changes  of  the  moon  once 

more; 
True    song,    though    speech :       '  mine 

author  sung  it  me.' 

Robartes 

Twenty-and-eight   the   phases   of   the 

moon, 
The  full  and  the  moon's  dark  and  all 

the  crescents, 
Twenty-and-eight,    and    yet   but    six- 

and-twenty 
The  cradles  that  a  man  must  needs  be 

rocked  in : 
For  there's  no  human  life  at  the  full 

or  the  dark. 
From  the  first  crescent  to  the  half,  the 

dream 
But  summons  to   adventure   and  the 

man 


92    THE  PHASES  OF  THE  MOON 

Is  always  happy  like  a  bird  or  a  beast ; 
But  while  the  moon  is  rounding  to- 
wards the  full 
He    follows    whatever    whim's    most 

difficult 
Among    whims    not    impossible,    and 

though  scarred 
As  with  the  cat-o'-nine-tails     of     the 

mind, 
His    body    moulded    from    within    his 

body 
Grows  comelier.     Eleven     pass,     and 

then 
Athenae  takes  Achilles  by  the  hair, 
Hector  is  in  the  dust,  Nietzsche  is  born, 
Because    the    heroes'    crescent    is    the 

twelfth. 
And    yet,    twice    born,    twice    buried, 

grow  he  must, 
Before   the   full   moon,   helpless   as   a 

worm. 
The  thirteenth  moon  but  sets  the  soul 

at  war 


THE  PHASES  OF  THE  MOON    93 

In  its  own  being,  and  when  that  war's 
begun 

There  is  no  muscle  in  the  arm ;  and 
after 

Under  the  frenzy  of  the  fourteenth 
moon 

The  soul  begins  to  tremble  into  still- 
ness, 

To  die  into  the  labyrinth  of  itself 

Aherne 

Sing  out  the  song ;  sing  to  the  end, 
and  sing 

The  strange  reward  of  all  that  disci- 
pline. 

Robartes 

All    thought    becomes    an    image    and 

the  soul 
Becomes  a  body :   that  body  and  that 

soul 
Too   perfect   at   the   full   to   lie   in   a 

cradle, 


94    THE  PHASES  OF  THE  MOON 

Too  lonely  for  the  traffic  of  the  world : 
Body  and  soul  cast  out  and  cast  away 
Beyond  the  visible  world. 

Aherne 

All  dreams  of  the  soul 
End  in  a  beautiful  man's  or  woman's 
body. 

Robartes 

Have  you  not  always  known  it  ? 

Aherne 

The  song  will  have  it 
That  those  that   we  have   loved   got 

their  long  fingers 
From  death,  and  wounds,  or  on  Sinai's 

top, 
Or  from   some  bloody  whip   in  their 

own  hands. 
They   ran   from   cradle   to   cradle   till 

at  last 


THE  PHASES  OF  THE  MOON    95 

Their    beauty    dropped    out    of    the 

loneliness 
Of  body  and  soul. 

Robartes 

The  lovers'  heart  knows  that. 

Aherne 

It  must  be  that  the  terror  in  their  eyes 
Is   memory   or   foreknowledge   of   the 

hour 
When  all  is  fed  with  light  and  heaven 

is  bare. 

Robartes 

When  the  moon's  full  those  creatures 

of  the  full 
Are  met  on  the  waste  hills  by  country 

men 
Who    shudder   and   hurry   by:     body 

and  soul 
Estranged    amid    the    strangeness    of 

themselves, 


96    THE  PHASES  OF  THE  MOON 

Caught     up     in     contemplation,     the 

mind's  eye 
Fixed    upon    images    that    once    were 

thought, 
For  separate,  perfect,  and  immovable 
Images  can  break  the  solitude 
Of  lovely,  satisfied,  indifferent  eyes. 

And  thereupon  with  aged,  high-pitched 

voice 
Aherne   laughed,   thinking   of  the   man 

within, 
His  sleepless  candle  and  laborious  pen. 


ROBARTES 

And  after  that  the  crumbling  of  the 

moon. 
The  soul  remembering  its  loneliness 
Shudders    in    many    cradles ;     all    is 

changed, 
It  would  be  the  World's  servant,  and 

as  it  serves, 


THE  PHASES  OF  THE  MOON    97 

Choosing  whatever  task's  most  difficult 
Among  tasks  not  impossible,  it  takes 
Upon  the  body  and  upon  the  soul 
The  coarseness  of  the  drudge. 

Ah ERNE 

Before  the  full 
It    sought    itself    and    afterwards    the 
world. 

Robartes 

Because  you  are  forgotten,  half  out 
of  life, 

And  never  wrote  a  book  your  thought 
is  clear. 

Reformer,  merchant,  statesman, 
learned  man, 

Dutiful  husband,  honest  wife  by  turn, 

Cradle  upon  cradle,  and  all  in  flight 
and  all 

Deformed  because  there  is  no  de- 
formity 

But  saves  us  from  a  dream. 


98    THE  PHASES  OF  THE  MOON 

Aherne 

And  what  of  those 
That  the  last  servile  crescent  has  set 
free? 

Robartes 

Because  all  dark,  like  those  that  are 
all  light, 

They  are  cast  beyond  the  verge,  and 
in  a  cloud, 

Crying  to  one  another  like  the  bats ; 

And  having  no  desire  they  cannot  tell 

What's  good  or  bad,  or  what  it  is  to 
triumph 

At  the  perfection  of  one's  own  obedi- 
ence; 

And  yet  they  speak  what's  blown  into 
the  mind ; 

Deformed  beyond  deformity,  un- 
formed, 

Insipid  as  the  dough  before  it  is  baked, 

They  change  their  bodies  at  a  word. 


THE  PHASES  OF  THE  MOON    99 

Aherne 

And  then  ? 

Robartes 

When    all    the    dough    has    been    so 

kneaded  up 
That    it    can    take    what    form    cook 

Nature  fancy 
The    first    thin    crescent    is    wheeled 

round  once  more. 

Aherne 

But  the  escape ;  the  song's  not  finished 
yet. 

Robartes 

Hunchback    and    saint    and    fool    are 

the  last  crescents. 
The    burning    bow    that    once    could 

shoot  an  arrow 
Out  of  the  up  and  down,  the  wagon 

wheel 


100   THE  PHASES  OF  THE  MOON 

Of    beauty's    cruelty    and    wisdom's 

chatter, 
Out    of    that    raving    tide    is    drawn 

betwixt 
Deformity  of  body  and  of  mind. 


Aherne 

Were  not  our  beds  far  off  I'd  ring  the 

bell, 
Stand    under   the   rough    roof-timbers 

of  the  hall 
Beside   the   castle   door,   where  all   is 

stark 
Austerity,  a  place  set  out  for  wisdom 
That  he  will  never  find ;    I'd  play  a 

part; 
He   would   never   know   me   after  all 

these  years 
But  take  me  for  some  drunken  country 

man; 
I'd  stand  and  mutter  there  until  he 

caught 


THE  PHASES  OF  THE  MOON    101 

'Hunchback  and  saint  and  fool,'  and 

that  they  came 
Under  the  three  last  crescents  of  the 

moon, 
And  then  I'd  stagger  out.     He'd  crack 

his  wits 
Day    after    day,    yet    never    find    the 

meaning. 

And  then  he  laughed  to  think  that  what 

seemed  hard 
Should  be  so  simple  —  a  bat  rose  from 

the  hazels 
And  circled  round  him  with  its  squeaky 

cry, 
The  light  in  the  tower  window  was  put 

out. 


THE  CAT  AND  THE  MOON 

The  cat  went  here  and  there 

And  the  moon  spun  round  like  a  top, 

And  the  nearest  kin  of  the  moon 

The  creeping  cat  looked  up. 

Black  Minnaloushe  stared  at  the  moon, 

For  wander  and  wail  as  he  would 

The  pure  cold  light  in  the  sky 

Troubled  his  animal  blood. 

Minnaloushe  runs  in  the  grass, 

Lifting  his  delicate  feet. 

Do  you  dance,  Minnaloushe,  do  you 

dance  ? 

When  two  close  kindred  meet 

What  better  than  call  a  dance, 

Maybe  the  moon  may  learn, 

Tired  of  that  courtly  fashion, 

102 


THE  CAT  AND  THE  MOON     103 

A  new  dance  turn. 

Minnaloushe  creeps  through  the  grass 

From  moonlit  place  to  place, 

The  sacred  moon  overhead 

Has  taken  a  new  phase. 

Does  Minnaloushe  know  that  his  pupils 

Will  pass  from  change  to  change, 

And  that  from  round  to  crescent, 

From  crescent  to  round  they  range  ? 

Minnaloushe  creeps  through  the  grass 

Alone,  important  and  wise, 

And  lifts  to  the  changing  moon 

His  changing  eyes. 


THE  SAINT  AND  THE 
HUNCHBACK 

Hunchback 

Stand    up    and    lift    your   hand    and 

bless 
A  man  that  finds  great  bitterness 
In  thinking  of  his  lost  renown. 
A  Roman  Caesar  is  held  down 
Under  this  hump. 

Saint 

God  tries  each  man 
According  to  a  different  plan. 
I  shall  not  cease  to  bless  because 
I  lay  about  me  with  the  taws 
That  night  and  morning  I  may  thrash 

104 


SAINT  AND   HUNCHBACK    105 

Greek  Alexander  from  my  flesh, 
Augustus  Caesar,  and  after  these 
That  great  rogue  Alcibiades. 

Hunchback 

To  all  that  in  your  flesh  have  stood 
And  blessed,  I  give  my  gratitude, 
Honoured  by  all  in  their  degrees, 
But  most  to  Alcibiades. 


TWO  SONGS  OF  A  FOOL 


A  speckled  cat  and  a  tame  hare 

Eat  at  ray  hearthstone 

And  sleep  there ; 

And  both  look  up  to  me  alone 

For  learning  and  defence 

As  I  look  up  to  Providence. 

I  start  out  of  my  sleep  to  think 
Some  day  I  may  forget 
Their  food  and  drink ; 
Or,  the  house  door  left  unshut, 
The  hare  may  run  till  it's  found 
The  horn's  sweet  note  and  the  tooth 
of  the  hound. 

I  bear  a  burden  that  might  well  try 
Men  that  do  all  by  rule, 

106 


TWO   SONGS  OF  A  FOOL     107 

And  what  can  I 

That  am  a  wandering  witted  fool 
But  pray  to  God  that  He  ease 
My  great  responsibilities. 


ii 

I  slept  on  my  three-legged  stool  by 

the  fire, 
The  speckled  cat  slept  on  my  knee; 
We  never  thought  to  enquire 
Where  the  brown  hare  might  be, 
And  whether  the  door  were  shut. 
Who  knows  how  she  drank  the  wind 
Stretched  up  on  two  legs  from  the  mat. 
Before  she  had  settled  her  mind 
To  drum  with  her  heel  and  to  leap : 
Had  I  but  awakened  from  sleep 
And  called  her  name  she  had  heard, 
It  may  be,  and  had  not  stirred, 
That  now,  it  may  be,  has  found 
The  horn's  sweet  note  and  the  tooth 

of  the  hound. 


ANOTHER  SONG  OF  A  FOOL 

This  great  purple  butterfly, 
In  the  prison  of  my  hands, 
Has  a  learning  in  his  eye 
Not  a  poor  fool  understands. 

Once  he  lived  a  schoolmaster 

With  a  stark,  denying  look, 

A  string  of  scholars  went  in  fear 

Of  his  great  birch  and  his  great  book. 

Like  the  clangour  of  a  bell, 
Sweet  and  harsh,  harsh  and  sweet, 
That  is  how  he  learnt  so  well 
To  take  the  roses  for  his  meat. 


108 


THE  DOUBLE  VISION  OF 
MICHAEL  ROBARTES 

i 

On  the  grey  rock  of  Cashel  the  mind's 

eye 
Has  called  up  the  cold  spirits  that  are 

born 
When  the  old  moon  is  vanished  from 

the  sky 
And  the  new  still  hides  her  horn. 

Under  blank  eyes   and  fingers  never 

still 
The   particular   is   pounded   till   it  is 

man, 
When  had  I  my  own  will  ? 
Oh,  not  since  life  began. 

109 


110      MICHAEL  ROBARTES 

Constrained,   arraigned,   baffled,   bent 

and  unbent 
By  these  wire- jointed  jaws  and  limbs 

of  wood, 
Themselves  obedient, 
Knowing  not  evil  and  good ; 

Obedient    to     some    hidden     magical 

breath. 
They  do  not  even  feel,  so  abstract  are 

they, 
So  dead  beyond  our  death, 
Triumph  that  we  obey. 

ii 

On  the  grey  rock  of  Cashel  I  suddenly 

saw 
A  Sphinx  with  woman  breast  and  lion 

paw, 
A  Buddha,  hand  at  rest, 
Hand  lifted  up  that  blest ; 
And  right  between  these  two  a  girl 

at  play 


MICHAEL  ROBARTES      111 

That  it  may  be  had  danced  her  life 

away, 
For  now  being  dead  it  seemed 
That  she  of  dancing  dreamed. 

Although  I  saw  it  all  in  the  mind's  eye 
There  can  be  nothing  solider  till  I  die ; 
I  saw  by  the  moon's  light 
Now  at  its  fifteenth  night. 

One  lashed  her  tail;    her  eyes  lit  by 

the  moon 
Gazed    upon    all    things    known,    all 

things  unknown, 
In  triumph  of  intellect 
With  motionless  head  erect. 

That   other's   moonlit   eyeballs   never 

moved, 
Being   fixed   on   all   things   loved,   all 

things  unloved, 
Yet  little  peace  he  had 
For  those  that  love  are  sad. 


112     MICHAEL  ROBARTES 

Oh,  little  did  they  care  who  danced 

between, 
And  little  she  by  whom  her  dance  was 

seen 
So  that  she  danced.     No  thought, 
Body  perfection  brought, 

For  what  but  eye  and  ear  silence  the 
mind 

With  the  minute  particulars  of  man- 
kind ? 

Mind  moved  yet  seemed  to  stop 

As  'twere  a  spinning-top. 

In  contemplation  had  those  three  so 

wrought 
Upon  a  moment,  and  so  stretched  it 

out 
That  they,  time  overthrown, 
Were  dead  yet  flesh  and  bone. 


MICHAEL  ROBARTES      113 


in 


I  knew  that  I  had  seen,  had  seen  at 

last 
That  girl  my   unremembering  nights 

hold  fast 
Or  else  my  dreams  that  fly, 
If  I  should  rub  an  eye, 

And  yet  in  flying  fling  into  my  meat 
A  crazy  juice  that  makes  the  pulses 

beat 
As  though  I  had  been  undone 
By  Homer's  Paragon 

Who  never  gave  the  burning  town  a 

thought ; 
To  such  a  pitch  of  folly  I  am  brought, 
Being  caught  between  the  pull 
Of  the  dark  moon  and  the  full, 


114      MICHAEL  ROBARTES 

The     commonness     of     thought     and 

images 
That  have  the  frenzy  of  our  western 

seas. 
Thereon  I  made  my  moan, 
And  after  kissed  a  stone, 

And  after  that  arranged  it  in  a  song 
Seeing  that  I,  ignorant  for  so  long, 
Had  been  rewarded  thus 
In  Cormac's  ruined  house. 


NOTE 

"  Unpack  the  loaded  pern"  p.  36. 

When  I  was  a  child  at  Sligo  I  could  see  above 
my  grandfather's  trees  a  little  column  of  smoke 
from  "the  pern  mill,"  and  was  told  that  "pern" 
was  another  name  for  the  spool,  as  I  was  accus- 
tomed to  call  it,  on  which  thread  was  wound. 
One  could  not  see  the  chimney  for  the  trees,  and 
the  smoke  looked  as  if  it  came  from  the  mountain, 
and  one  day  a  foreign  sea-captain  asked  me  if 
that  was  a  burning  mountain. 

W.  B.  Y. 


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